Stargate Atlantis Fanfic

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LapinKnight of the Bleach

Join date : 2009-06-10Age : 28Location : Maryland

Subject: Stargate Atlantis Fanfic Sun Jul 17, 2011 9:48 pm

It's been a long time since I wrote actual fanfiction, and by that I mean something with a plot. So I decided to start playing around in SGA, and found myself actually caring about plots. It combines two subjects I enjoy, the military and science. And then I got all excited because there was a team with a botanist, and that's science I can write about! Yay!

So, I actually started writing something really basic. An alien world where the team (Lorne's team) are stuck in their own heads, as the aliens fuck with their memories, rifling through them, forcing them back into scenes with strong emotional attachments, good and bad. But the characters are semi-aware, and become more aware, but they can't stop the memories from coming back. The aliens hide as people they can picture strongly (A dead fiancee, a friend), acting like "spirit guides", until the characters start to see through the mask (Standing wrong, using the wrong slang, etc.). The question is what they want with the memories, why they even want in their heads. (Hint: Nothing good)

Well, writing something detailed and long is harrrdddddd. I need help. I have a rough draft of the first encounter, but it's not very detailed or good. Christ, I actually used to be pretty good at this. So help me fix this.

Quote :

Coughlin was sleeping. He knew he was sleeping because he was holding his M249, and he hadn't held it since Afghanistan. The weight felt good, familiar. He'd loved this gun, had taken to it like a duck to water the day the Army put it in his hands.

“You're dreaming.” Thomas stood over him.

“Yep.” He said, and stood up. “Only this isn't a normal dream is it?”

“How would I know?” She asked, an eyebrow raised. “I'm your imagination dumbfuck.” That was true. The real Thomas had been given an honorary discharge, and when he saw her last, right before he walked through the Stargate, she'd been happy. She lived up in Nova Scotia now. Had a dog. Lots of stray cats.

This was the Thomas he had trekked through a desert with, the one who still had her left arm, who carried a knife down her bra.

“What's going on?” He asked, his fingers still tight around the gun. It felt good to hold it again, reassuring. P90s were alright, he didn't have a problem with them, but this was his damn gun, and he'd missed its weight like hell.

“You're dreaming.” She repeated. “The question you need to ask is why you're dreaming of this place. I'd say there was something deeply metaphorical about a desert, but this is you we're talking about. So tell me why you'd want to be here. Why not Germany? You loved Germany.” Her knife was in her hand. “Maybe there's some deep-seated need for resolution. This is where it happened, after all.”

“Lots of shit happened here.” She smiled at him, a pretty smile, the kind of smile a mother had. Thomas had a daughter, six years old when he left, who called him Jonah, the only person in the whole world who used his full name.

“Are you still blaming yourself for my arm?” He shook his head.

“You told me to fire.”

“Didn't mean you had to do it.” He hefted the gun, and looked down at the sands. It had been so bright, the first time he'd seen Afghanistan. Nothing but sun and sky and sand. A great big swath of emptiness, like being on the moon, or Mars.

“Yeah, I did.” He replied.

She looks at him, stares at him really, the intensity of her expression familiar, but still uncomfortable. She was shorter than him, but fit, agile, and a lot quicker on the uptake than him. He'd liked her, liked being a member of her team. He'd always felt safe with Thomas, knowing she had his back.

“I guess you did.” Her left arm is suddenly gone, the sleeve neatly folded up and pinned, her whole posture shifting into how she stood now, a new balance for her new body. “Do you regret it?” He had to think about it, remember how it happened, how he did what he had to do.

“No.” He answered, sure.

She nodded, turned, and started walking.

He followed.

“So who else is in here?” He asked, after a time. Thomas kept her back to him, kept walking. The empty sleeve caught his eye again, and he wondered, for just a moment, if there had been another way. If there was something he could have done that would have gotten the same results without her sacrifice.

“Down that road lies madness Jonah.” She said, only it wasn't Thomas anymore, but Emily, tall for her age, with her mother's eyes, her skin the color of coffee with milk, a perfect mix between her parents. “You can't change the past. Everyone knows that.”

“I go through wormholes and fight alien vampires for a living. How do you know what's possible?” It wasn't really Emily, he told himself. Emily was home with Thomas, safe and sound, waiting for Uncle Jonah to bring back a present from whatever far away place he'd been sent. So when the blood blossomed across her chest, it shouldn't have felt like it did. But in a moment, he was holding her little body, as she bled all over him, soaking his uniform, the air reeking of iron, doing what he could to stop the bleeding.

He turned her over in his arms, and she was just a boy whose name he had never known, the first body he'd ever seen. He was stone cold, just like he'd been then, exposed to the winter desert night, in just a t-shirt and pants. No shoes, no jacket, he remembered. Shot in the back while he ran. Even if they hadn't murdered him, the desert would have killed him, the cold unbearable at that time of year.

He looked up at the smell of smoke, and saw the stars, endlessly spilling over his head in the navy blue sky, the moon a thin crescent over the mountains, lighting up the night enough to see the thick plumes of grey smoke that blotted against the sky like someone had taken an eraser to it. The village was a cracked black outline and little more by the time they'd gotten there that night, too late to save anyone, too late to save a child running for his life.

Coughlin laid him down on the sands, and his little body crumbled away, into ash and dust, like he'd never been there.

“We have to see if there are survivors.” Yamashiro told him, a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Come on Coughlin, pull it together.” He stood, his gun a steady weight in his hands. “You with me?”

“Yeah.” He said, and followed Yamashiro in, into the burnt out place. The bodies around them had stopped bleeding, but were still warm, covered in a layer of ash.

He couldn't save any of them, not one child, or mother, or old man. The women were bloody, their clothes a ruin, and he'd thrown up when he'd realized exactly what had been done to them. It had been Yamashiro who'd given him water to rinse his mouth out with, and told him it was okay.

“We need to report.” Niazi reminded Kiyawasew. “These people need to be taken care of.”

“I don't want to call anybody in until I know where the bastards are.” He said, as he knelt and felt the ashes, judging the temperature. “Coughlin!” He came over, knelt beside him, waiting for his orders. “I want you to take a look around, see what you can find.”

“And if I find them?” He asked.

“I picked you for a reason Coughlin.” Kiyawasew said, looking pointedly at Coughlin's gun. He nodded, understanding, and left to prowl around. When he focused like this, he felt better, more in control. This was his area, the only thing he was good at: Track and Kill. He walked silently, a trick he'd mastered when he was just a kid, sticking to the walls, listening for life.

He heard the tiniest shuffle, not the sound of collapsing walls, but the sound feet would make on ash, if they were trying to be quiet. He turned and fired.

It was lucky he was so small, Coughlin thought.

Just a kid, a scared sobbing kid, covered in ash and dark stains that could have only been blood, on the ground, trying to crawl away from Coughlin. Terrified, so fucking terrified of him. “Niazi, I need you, now!” He demanded, into his radio, trusting that his team had already been attracted by the sound of gunfire, and sure enough, it was Thomas and Niazi who came to him, Niazi who knelt beside the boy, hands out, his voice soothing, calm.

“Don't be afraid.” He said. “We'll keep you safe, I promise.”

“Oh Jesus,” He heard Thomas gasp, from inside the house the boy had been hiding in. “Fucking Christ, she shielded him.” Coughlin came in behind her, assessed, then walked out, grateful he had already emptied his stomach. The boy was clinging to Niazi now, and he lifted him up, held him close, the little kid covered in his grandmother's blood.

“I never wanted to see this again.” He said out loud. “Never.”

“You saw worse.” Niazi said, holding on to the kid. “We saw things that made this look like a birthday party.”

“This was the first though.” He said.

“Were their deaths somehow worth more?” Thomas asked.

“No. I don't know. It was always their faces though. That kid outside, it was always him in my nightmares. I just wanted to know his name. But no one knew. Or just didn't care. I don't know. I think about him still.” There was heat behind his eyes, and he held his gun so tight his knuckles turned white. “They shot him in the back.”

“They raped his mother.” Niazi said. “And then they slit her throat. Why would shooting a child in the back mean anything to them? They were making a point. These people were an example. That was why we kept going, remember? We didn't let this stop us.”

“I don't want to be here anymore. Change it.”

“That's not how it works.” Thomas said. She was bleeding from her arm, the top a mess of blood and exposed bone.

“It's my head!”

“But you're not in control.” She countered. “You have to play by the rules.”

“What rules?! What rules say I have to look at some dead kid again? What the fuck is going on? Why can't I wake up?” His fingers hurt, the metal hard under them. “This is just a nightmare, I can wake up.”

“No you can't, or you already would have, wouldn't you?”

He closed his eyes, and thought hard.

When he opened them, he was in Germany, on the range.

“Coughlin.” His CO was walking over to him, with a tall Marine beside him. Kiyawasew, his uniform said, a lieutenant, and Coughlin wondered what kind of name Kiyawasew was. “This is Lt. Kiyawasew, and he's visiting our fine base. He wanted to talk to you.”

“Sir,” He addressed the Marine. The man looked at him like he was evaluating him, and it made Coughlin uncomfortable. “What can I do for you?”

“Rodriguez.” The Marine said, talking to his CO. It was a clear dismissal, and though Rodriguez made a face that said exactly what he thought of some jarhead ordering him around, he left without a grumble, leaving them alone. He turned back to Coughlin, his gaze still too intense. “Jonah Coughlin. Interesting name.” He shrugged in response. “Not that I have room to talk. My family is First Nations, from up North.”

“I wasn't going to ask sir.” He said.

“But you were thinking it.” Coughlin shrugged again, unsure of what the hell was going on, and until he knew, he wasn't going to run his mouth. “I had no intention of recruiting when I came here, of course. But I happened to be here on the range yesterday when you were shooting.” Coughlin nodded, acknowledging that he'd been here. He liked to practice. “I was impressed. So I looked up your record. You're one of the best marksmen I've seen in quite awhile. Not only that, there's quite a few notes in there complimenting you on your stealth.”

“Nice to know sir.” He said. Kiyawasew smiled.

“How do you feel about joining a team, a, well, let's call it special operations, a very discreet kind of special operations?”

“What would I be doing?” He forgot the 'sir', but Kiyawasew didn't say anything.

“I need a marksman. One who can get around without alerting the whole country. I've got a corpsman already, and an interpreter. Some other people with special talents. No marksman though.” Coughlin thought about it, taking apart the rifle out of habit, out of need to do something with his hands. “You of course can't talk about this with anyone else. The existence of this team, and its missions, are on a need-to-know basis.”

“Where would I be going?”

“Can't tell you that without proper clearance.” Coughlin put the last piece down. “What do you think?”

“I need to think about it.”

“But you're considering it.” He nodded, and that seemed to make Kiyawasew happy enough. He gave Coughlin a card. “Call me when you've decided, and we'll get everything in order.”

“Why do you think I'm going to say yes?” The man smiled again, and picked up the scope, tossing it in the air and catching it.

“Because you're bored Coughlin. You're as bored as the rest of my team, and utterly wasted by the Army. You wouldn't be wasted with my team.” He tossed the scope at Coughlin, who caught it without thinking. “We'll even let you have the cool toys.” Kiyawasew walked away then, but he hadn't gotten ten feet before Coughlin made up his mind.

“I want to keep my gun.” He demanded. Kiyawasew turned and nodded.

“Done.”

“Why did you want to keep the gun?” Niazi was beside him. “It's just a gun.”

“It's my gun.” He said fiercely, his fingers curled tight around it, somehow reassembled in a moment.

“It's just an object though.” He studied the Niazi of his dream world, something off, for the first time. He couldn't put his finger on it for a moment, but the nagging feeling was persistant, so he looked closely, very closely.

“Niazi never stands like that.” He said at last. “Not with his hands in his pockets. He stands at ease, always. Romero stands like that. You've mixed them up.” He raised the gun, and aimed. “You're not a memory. So what are you?” The Not-Niazi smiled.

Like I said, rough as hell. I so obviously need help it's not even funny.

Ozymandias

Join date : 2010-08-08

Subject: Re: Stargate Atlantis Fanfic Tue Jul 19, 2011 4:22 pm

Hey!

Very interesting to test the limits of Coughlin's sanity and the dream setting allowed you to make it really flluid. The build-up is fine, it's neither too sudden nor dragged-out, and you have a nice turn of phrase. Plot-wise, since I enjoy SG:A but am by no means an expert I can't really comment on coherence with the canon, except that I think the concept is great, and the ending was a bit of a shock so it would be nice to see where this is going.

The only flaws I could find are, for one, there are some confusing mix-ups of past and present tenses. For example, near the beginning:

Quote :

She looks at him, stares at him really, the intensity of her expression familiar, but still uncomfortable. She was shorter than him,...

If this was intentional in a way, to shift from the 'in dream' perspective to what actually are his memories, then it's done pretty suddenly and doesn't really work. Something to the effects of "He remembered her shorter than him..." would work better maybe. However I see you dropped the present tense entirely during the rest of the chapter so I suppose it was a typo.

Also, the dialogue can get a bit confusing. Avoid repetition of 'said' - during the first half of the segment you doing just fine with this but then you kind of overuse it, especially in the middle bit with Niazi and the child.The other part I see something wrong with is this:

Quote :

“Where would I be going?”

“Can't tell you that without proper clearance.” Coughlin put the last piece down. “What do you think?”

“I need to think about it.”

“But you're considering it.” He nodded, and that seemed to make Kiyawasew happy enough. He gave Coughlin a card. “Call me when you've decided, and we'll get everything in order.”

“Why do you think I'm going to say yes?” The man smiled again, and picked up the scope, tossing it in the air and catching it.

Looking back it seems a bit silly, but the way you worded the narration between the exchange makes it a bit confusing to tell who's saying what. Could be just me being scatter-brained, however.

I hope you don't think I was too harsh, I would really like to see this continued and if you ever do upload it, send a link plz.

LapinKnight of the Bleach

Join date : 2009-06-10Age : 28Location : Maryland

Subject: Re: Stargate Atlantis Fanfic Thu Jul 21, 2011 10:31 am

No, you're right, those are weak points. I'm working on editing them into something more coherent.

I really like this actually, now that I look at it. It's not awful, at least. I'm definitely going to keep going. I'm just working out Reed's "dreams", and his worst and best memories. Making up backgrounds is harder than I thought, because I want realistic bad memories that aren't very wahngsty, like things that were bad, but they have moved on from since. Parrish (The botanist) was easier.

LapinKnight of the Bleach

Join date : 2009-06-10Age : 28Location : Maryland

Subject: Re: Stargate Atlantis Fanfic Thu Jul 21, 2011 1:18 pm

Quote :

Reed was shaken awake by someone, a nurse. “Lt. Reed?” He asked. Reed nodded, and tried to clear his head. He'd been on his feet for thirty-odd hours, and his mind was starting to shut down, the world going soft and fuzzy on the edges. “Lt. Reed, we've got it under control now. You can go.”

“Alright.” He said, nodding.

“Do you need an escort Lt. Reed?” He looked up at the nurse, brow furrowed in thought.

“No, no, I'm good. Thank you.” He stood, grabbed his bag, and left. He caught a ride back to his tent with one of the crews, and had never been so grateful to see his cot. Over thirty hours of bleeding and dying, trying to keep people alive long enough for the doctors to get to them. It had not been a good day.

“Reed?” Barnes shook him back awake. “Reed, you've got mail man.” A letter was being shoved into his hands. “You alright?”

“Fucking tired.” He said, his fist closing around the envelope. He was too exhausted to bother, and figured a letter would keep until he woke up. Barnes said something, his hand on Reed's back, but he was too far gone to comprehend.

When he woke up, the cardboard envelope was creased in his hand. The return address was his girlfriend's.

Fuck.

Teresa used Skype to talk to him, even when he couldn't get Internet access for weeks. She hated writing. Only one reason he could think of for her to send a letter. Well, at least she'd done it with some dignity, but it was probably more because she didn't want to have to face him when she did it.

He tore it open, and found exactly what he'd suspected.

Dear Tommy,

I'm sorry, but I can't sit at home and wait-

Christ, but she had a flair for the dramatic. He tore it up and tossed it, then catalogued his stuff, making sure he hadn't left anything he'd really miss at her place. He didn't think so.

Fuck.

“You didn't love me.” His eyes snapped open and he looked to his side. He was in the barracks in Italy, and Teresa was standing beside him. She was exactly the same as the last time he'd seen her, down to the clothes, including the stupid Hello Kitty shirt. “Why were you with me?”

“It was easy.” He answered, confused. He rubbed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. “You were just there.”

“You're dreaming Tommy.” She said.

“Can I wake up then?” This wasn't right, he thought. Dreams weren't this real, not his at least.

“Nope.” She answered, playing with her hair. She'd had those pink clip-in extensions on that day, he remembered. He had always hated those things. “Was there anything you liked about me?”

“Unlike her.” He blinked, and Teresa was Rachel, beautiful Rachel with her black hair and almond-shaped eyes. “I asked questions. I wanted you to talk to me. I pushed.” She touched his face, her skin warm and real, realer than any dream he'd ever had, even the ones of her.

“Yeah, you did.”

“So you found someone who was the exact opposite.” There was blood on her stomach, pouring out from a great gaping hole. It yawned wider as he looked at it, until her shirt was soaked, and her jeans were tacky and stained. When he looked up at her again, her hair was a wreck, blood dripping down her face from the wound that had opened up her skull, one eye red with burst veins. “Who didn't remind you that you lost me. How sad is that?”

“Pretty fucking sad.” He confessed. “But I already know that. Everyone knows that. Fuck, even Coughlin knows about you.” He sat up, and hopped down from the bed. She'd been so short next to him, barely coming to his chest. It had always made him nervous, like he might hurt her somehow. But she'd been so strong, so much stronger than she looked.

Her Civic hadn't even looked like a car when he'd seen it. The whole front end was crumpled in like foil. She'd bled out in the ambulance, they'd told him. She'd bled out, all alone, just the paramedics there to hold her hand. Not him. He'd identified her though. Had to look at her tiny body on the big metal table, a sheet over her.

Her engagement ring had been in a little Ziploc, the metal scratched. They'd cleaned it, the tech said, as everyone avoided his eyes.

“What did you do with the ring?” She asked.

“Gave it to your sister.” He looked back up at her, and she was his Rachel again, beautiful and unscathed.

“You miss me.”

“A little less every day.” She smiled, and she was Emily, only fifteen, mascara running, with a blue streak in her hair.

“Take it.” She said, and pressed something into his hand. “You're going to need it.”

He was alone in his barracks, the engagement ring in hand.

From you I will never part, read the engraving.

“I never got in engraved.” He said aloud, to the empty room. “I wanted her to pick the quote. I never got a chance to get it done.” Just like that, the engraving faded away. Biting his lip, he slid the ring onto the chain with his tags, then pulled a gun, a Beretta. “Alright assholes, show's over. Where the fuck am I?”